


The unfinished notes of Patrick Hockstetters suicide

by Decemberdaisies



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst, Anorexia, Character Death, Depression, Eating Disorder, Love, M/M, Suicide
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2019-10-25 18:38:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17730509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Decemberdaisies/pseuds/Decemberdaisies
Summary: The 28 notes found in Patrick’s bedroom after his suicide.





	1. First Letter

**Author's Note:**

> This is such a weird idea and I’m literally just using my own notes but it’s fun

If I was an artist, I would paint hundreds of pictures of my own Skelton and hang them every place I’ve ever wanted to hang myself. I would use my blood as the paint. I would hope that everyone who ever dared to look upon my art would get the sudden urge to wash their insides with bleach or try to fly off a building. I would hope they would be terrified. 

Hollowness can be like Novocain if you’re fucked up enough and oh I am. I’m not sick, I’m strong. If you’re going to worry about me, worry about my psychotic tendencies, not the fact that I like to skip meals. 

Nobody knows me, not even God. I am a product. A product sculpted by starvation and alcohol and meaningless sex. Glitter and acid and Depressing piano pieces. I know how I would kill myself, if I ever did, which I probably will. Sometime in the morning, I would lock myself in the bathroom and turn off the light, but leave the blinds cracked to get some natural light in. I would run a bath, and play a Mozart record on full volume. I would take off my clothes and sit in the bath. I’d swallow an entire bottle of some sort of pill and chase it with vodka. If slit my wrists with a kitchen knife, light a cigarette, and wait. Funny enough, this is how I would commit murder too. I’d have sex with them first, ask if they wanted to get cleaned up afterwards, and of course in the case of murder I couldn’t make them take a shit load of pills, I would have to slit their throat, but the setting would be much the same.


	2. Alcohol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His relationship with alcohol

I started drinking when I was thirteen. My father was asleep upstairs with the door wide open, so I sat on the floor of the pantry with a bottle of vodka and suddenly all my pain was gone. 

I met you was a was thirteen. It was June and you were my sun and I like to think that I was your moon. We were nothing alike but we still fell in love. 

There was a constant battle in my head, which one of you was sweeter? Which one did I need. I loved you, but apparently not enough. 

We’re all allowed to choose our own poison. Without knowing it, at thirteen, I chose alcohol. It was just sweeter.


	3. 3:00AM

She looks into my cemetery eyes, red lip stick lies and tells me “I never knew” 

The words are icy cold spat from summers hot tongue. Of course she never knew. 

When your life is all white picket fences and laughing and mom and dad, she wasn’t him.

She wasn’t the one who grew up calling holes in the drywall “father” and burning cigarettes “mother” 

She didn’t have a shotgun for a brother and a bottle of vodka for a sister. 

Her front doors locked and glasses were never broken and the shower water was hot and her feelings got spoken. 

She wasn’t him. She wasn’t me. 

Her family didn’t hold the number on the scale in higher esteem than the word of god 

The spoons in her kitchen were used for eating and only eating and the handles never got bent from the heat of a flame. 

She grew up being told she was worth more than her mouth 

She didn’t know 

She didn’t know 

But I knew


	4. Why not?

Every Monday at 5 pm I sit under that unforgiving fluorescent lighting face to face with a psychiatrist. 

She asks the same question. Why. 

It’s a simple question really but it’s a simple question that I can’t answer and it makes me feel so stupid because it’s the biggest part of my life, it’s all I can write, mread, think about and I should know the why. But I don’t.   
I could say...  
Maybe because   
It gave me power. And my mother always taught me to never let anyone take my power. She said I was handsome. She said my daddy was too and she told me that when pretty boys sit, smart boys and strong boys and every real man will run to take your power. And god did being thin give me power. Not eating gave me power 

Because... 

Not eating made me better than everyone else and yes, I need that. I could convince myself I didn’t need to eat, I didn’t need something that they did. There would be nothing to scrutinize. To my mother, being called fat was worse than being called immoral, being called a bitch being called cold and heartless. Being fat was a sin, being thin made me closer to god. 

Maybe because I’m not a nice person  
But I’m also not a hypocrite. And if I can be the thinnest the room, I’m the best person in that room. And something in me needs to let them know it. But I am secretly so sensitive, and I can’t take what I dish out. So yes, I’ll mock you for being over 120 pounds, ill whisper behind your back when you do something as human, as normal, and absolutely fucking okay as eating. As long as my size XS pants hang off of my frame. Most of the time, I don’t mean what I say, but it gives power. 

Maybe because I didn’t want to be a Man. I didn’t want to be looked at like that. I told myself that I am not a sexual being, I am a child of god I am a child of god. God, why is he looking at me like that. 

Or the contrary... 

I learned to deal with it because I need validation so badly. I need to feel like I’m good enough. So even if I can twist every lingering touch to my thigh from Henry into “he’s sexualizing me, I’m not thin enough to not be sexualized. I’m not thin enough period. I’m fat.” I still needed to know I was worthy of attention. Attention my mother was too high to give me. Attention my mother was too gone to give me. I deserve it. 

I can rattle off some bullshit about an absent father and mother that didn’t give a fuck. A mother who never really left high school.   
But is that really the reason? 

So I just say “I don’t know” 

maybe I can’t tell you the why.   
But that’s okay.   
Because, why not?


	5. I grew up

I grew up in a house without hot water, with thin walls and candles for light. I grew up without a daddy and a mother who was more of a sister having one night stands more important than her daughter. I grew up scared of ruined lines and not making principal and marks from thin long rulers on my thighs. I grew up not paying attention, almost drowning my brother in a bathtub. The smell of wine and a shotgun in the closet. I grew up in studio apartments trying to be passed for million dollar mansions and scratched black lighters. I grew up with crushes on boys but still sleeping with girls and hate in my heart for no reason and every reason at the same time. My sanctuary were the bathroom scales in hotel rooms because I grew up with piled up unwashed dishes and dirty clothes and bugs and an empty kitchen. I grew up getting hit for finishing a meal. I grew up with so much self loathing and I grew up with a god complex. 

I never wanted to stop. That’s probably why I haven’t still, even after all these years of having and losing everything I’ve ever wanted over and over again. Roughly every 64 minutes, someone dies as a direct consequence of their eating disorder. I don’t know if I’m happy that I’m not one of them. I don’t really think I am. Not eating is really hard, but it’s so much easier than eating. Than doing what my body wants, what my family and friends and treatment team all want. But it’s not what my brain wants. I can tell myself that nothing good comes from my eating disorder and intellectually, i know that to be true but that doesn’t stop me from thinking that my greatest achievement will be dying as a result from anorexia.


End file.
